Why Didn’t They Ask Evans?. Agatha Christie

in Marchbolt, he set off for a solitary picnic.

      He had missed Frankie abominably these last few days. These older people were the limit … They harped on things so.

      Bobby stretched himself out on a brackeny bank and debated with himself whether he should eat his lunch first and go to sleep afterwards, or sleep first and eat afterwards.

      While he was cogitating, the matter was settled for him by his falling asleep without noticing it.

      When he awoke it was half-past three! Bobby grinned as he thought how his father would disapprove of this way of spending a day. A good walk across country – twelve miles or so – that was the kind of thing that a healthy young man should do. It led inevitably to that famous remark: ‘And now, I think, I’ve earned my lunch.’

      ‘Idiotic,’ thought Bobby. ‘Why earn lunch by doing a lot of walking you don’t particularly want to do? What’s the merit in it? If you enjoy it, then it’s pure self-indulgence, and if you don’t enjoy it you’re a fool to do it.’

      Whereupon he fell upon his unearned lunch and ate it with gusto. With a sigh of satisfaction he unscrewed the bottle of beer. Unusually bitter beer, but decidedly refreshing …

      He lay back again, having tossed the empty beer bottle into a clump of heather.

      He felt rather god-like lounging there. The world was at his feet. A phrase, but a good phrase. He could do anything – anything if he tried! Plans of great splendour and daring initiative flashed through his mind.

      Then he grew sleepy again. Lethargy stole over him.

      He slept …

      Heavy, numbing sleep …

       Chapter 7 An Escape from Death

      Driving her large green Bentley, Frankie drew up to the kerb outside a large old-fashioned house over the doorway of which was inscribed ‘St Asaph’s’.

      Frankie jumped out and, turning, extracted a large bunch of lilies. Then she rang the bell. A woman in nurse’s dress answered the door.

      ‘Can I see Mr Jones?’ inquired Frankie.

      The nurse’s eyes took in the Bentley, the lilies and Frankie with intense interest.

      ‘What name shall I say?’

      ‘Lady Frances Derwent.’

      The nurse was thrilled and her patient went up in her estimation.

      She guided Frankie upstairs into a room on the first floor.

      ‘You’ve a visitor to see you, Mr Jones. Now, who do you think it is? Such a nice surprise for you.’

      All this is the ‘bright’ manner usual to nursing homes.

      ‘Gosh!’ said Bobby, very much surprised. ‘If it isn’t Frankie!’

      ‘Hullo, Bobby, I’ve brought the usual flowers. Rather a graveyard suggestion about them, but the choice was limited.’

      ‘Oh, Lady Frances,’ said the nurse, ‘they’re lovely. I’ll put them into water.’

      She left the room.

      Frankie sat down in an obvious visitor’s chair.

      ‘Well, Bobby,’ she said. ‘What’s all this?’

      ‘You may well ask,’ said Bobby. ‘I’m the complete sensation of this place. Eight grains of morphia, no less. They’re going to write about me in the Lancet and the BMJ.’

      ‘What’s the BMJ?’ interrupted Frankie.

      ‘The British Medical Journal.’

      ‘All right. Go ahead. Rattle off some more initials.’

      ‘Do you know, my girl, that half a grain is a fatal dose? I ought to be dead about sixteen times over. It’s true that recovery has been known after sixteen grains – still, eight is pretty good, don’t you think? I’m the hero of this place. They’ve never had a case like me before.’

      ‘How nice for them.’

      ‘Isn’t it? Gives them something to talk about to all the other patients.’

      The nurse re-entered, bearing lilies in vases.

      ‘It’s true, isn’t it, nurse?’ demanded Bobby. ‘You’ve never had a case like mine?’

      ‘Oh! you oughtn’t to be here at all,’ said the nurse. ‘In the churchyard you ought to be. But it’s only the good die young, they say.’ She giggled at her own wit and went out.

      ‘There you are,’ said Bobby. ‘You’ll see, I shall be famous all over England.’

      He continued to talk. Any signs of inferiority complex that he had displayed at his last meeting with Frankie had now quite disappeared. He took a firm and egotistical pleasure in recounting every detail of his case.

      ‘That’s enough,’ said Frankie, quelling him. ‘I don’t really care terribly for stomach pumps. To listen to you one would think nobody had ever been poisoned before.’

      ‘Jolly few have been poisoned with eight grains of morphia and got over it,’ Bobby pointed out. ‘Dash it all, you’re not sufficiently impressed.’

      ‘Pretty sickening for the people who poisoned you,’ said Frankie.

      ‘I know. Waste of perfectly good morphia.’

      ‘It was in the beer, wasn’t it?’

      ‘Yes. You see, someone found me sleeping like the dead, tried to wake me and couldn’t. Then they got alarmed, carried me to a farmhouse and sent for a doctor –’

      ‘I know all the next part,’ said Frankie hastily.

      ‘At first they had the idea that I’d taken the stuff deliberately. Then when they heard my story, they went off and looked for the beer bottle and found it where I’d thrown it and had it analysed – the dregs of it were quite enough for that, apparently.’

      ‘No clue as to how the morphia got in the bottle?’

      ‘None whatever. They’ve interviewed the pub where I bought it and opened other bottles and everything’s been quite all right.’

      ‘Someone must have put the stuff in the beer while you were asleep?’

      ‘That’s it. I remember that the paper across the top wasn’t still sticking properly.’

      Frankie nodded thoughtfully.

      ‘Well,’ she said. ‘It shows that what I said in the train that day was quite right.’

      ‘What did you say?’

      ‘That that man – Pritchard – had been pushed over the cliff.’

      ‘That wasn’t in the train. You said that at the station,’ said Bobby feebly.

      ‘Same thing.’

      ‘But why –’

      ‘Darling – it’s obvious. Why should anyone want to put you out of the way? You’re not the heir to a fortune or anything.’

      ‘I may be. Some great aunt I’ve never heard of in New Zealand or somewhere may have left me all her money.’

      ‘Nonsense. Not without knowing you. And if she didn’t know you, why leave money to a fourth son? Why, in these hard times even a clergyman mightn’t have a fourth son! No, it’s all quite clear. No one benefits by your death, so that’s ruled out. Then there’s revenge. You haven’t seduced a chemist’s daughter, by any chance?’

      ‘Not that I can remember,’ said